


A Very Femlock Christmas

by WilliamAnyaScottHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femlock, Femslash, Ficlet, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Smut, fem!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilliamAnyaScottHolmes/pseuds/WilliamAnyaScottHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John head home from a Christmas party.</p><p>A Smutty Secret Santa for consultinggalpals!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Femlock Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consultinggalpals (sansa_undergrind)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansa_undergrind/gifts).



It's well into the evening on December 25, and the atmosphere of Marc Hooper's Christmas party shows it. The only light in the flat comes from the dimmed chandelier and the twinkling of fairy lights lining the windows and hearth. Soft Christmas carols play in the background now that Sherlock's violin has been stored safely in its case and back with the coats in the master bedroom. Dinner has been eaten and enjoyed, toasts made, gifts exchanged, and bottles of wine finished.

John is standing by the fireplace watching Mrs. Hudson and a red-faced Lestrade by the stereo singing carols in two-part harmony. Laughing as she lifts her bottle of beer to her lips, she glances around flat. Sally and her date are talking in the kitchen, their faces close and hands inching slowly on each other's hips. Marc, dressed sharply in a tailored, navy blue suit and knit emerald green tie (which Sherlock was the first to point out, this time with much more tact and affection than at their first Christmas party), has been flitting from group to group playing the attentive host, but is now talking casually with a small crowd of fellow doctors from Barts.

Over by the corner window at the other end of the flat stands Sherlock, radiant in her sleek, deep purple cocktail dress, sheer black stockings, and black heels. Unfortunately for Sherlock's aura of perfection, Anderson is leaning heavily against the window frame, talking in slurs and gesticulating haphazardly. Poor Sherlock holds a pained smile, nodding too often at Anderson and glancing around for a reason to excuse herself.

John chuckles, the heat from the booze and the fire doubling as affection swells in her chest. She drains the last of her bottle and steps away from the hearth. Sherlock notices the movement and their eyes meet, John's full of mirth and love while Sherlock's show her distress ebb to relief. Sherlock hides a smile and goes back to feigning interest in Anderson's ramblings as John places her empty bottle on a nearby coffee table and sidles up to her girlfriend, right arm snaking around her waist until their sides are pressed together.

"Anderson! It's been so great to see you outside a crime scene, but Sherlock and I need to get going. We have an early road trip ahead of us to visit her parents, so it's best we get to bed before dawn." John looks up at Sherlock with a wink and steps away to hug Anderson briefly. Sherlock smiles and gives a small wave to the soused forensic scientist as they turn to make the goodbye rounds.

* * *

 

Outside the door, John is still pulling her hat down over her head as Sherlock steps toward to kerb to hail a cab when a gleaming black car silently pulls up and stops directly in front of them. Sherlock's mobile rings and she swears under her breath, pulling off a glove with her teeth to swipe her screen.

"For Christ's sake, we'll see you tomorrow," she grumbles with the glove still between her teeth. Truthfully, John is hardly ever as irritated as Sherlock when it comes to Mycroft, but the Bond movie antics get old quickly. After 30 seconds of silence, Sherlock wordlessly slides her phone back into her pocket and lowers the glove gently from her mouth.

"What is it? Is everything alr--" John stops abruptly with both hands on Sherlock's waist when she sees the look on her face. Sherlock's eyes are dark and a slow, mischievous smile is spreading. John can feel her own eyebrows furrow as she tries to understand what is going on, but the look she's getting from Sherlock is unmistakable. Still frowning, John's tongue involuntarily moves out to lick her lips, a movement that Sherlock's appraising gaze do not miss. Sherlock lowers her face to kiss John, their eyes fluttering closed, but stops as their lips barely touch to whisper against her mouth, "We have the car for a half hour. The cabin is soundproofed and the partition painted over. Mycroft's controlling tendencies extend further than previously theorised."

John laughs as Sherlock kisses her hard, both of them smiling into the kiss as John's hands weave through silky curls. The sound of the car door unlocking pulls them apart and John opens the door and ushers Sherlock inside with a flourish.

Once they've scrambled in and the doors have relocked, John lunges at Sherlock and lays her long, lean body down length of the bench seat, her heels clattering dully on the carpeted floor. John straddles her hips with hands bracing against the seat on either side of Sherlock's face and tries to keep her right knee from sliding off. She feels bony thighs press against her lifted arse and laughs huffily, "They didn't consider a lanky detective might need to lay across the seats when they designed this car, eh?"

Sherlock chuckles happily and pulls John's face down for a deep, languid kiss that seems to thicken the atmosphere of the car as John feels a jolt of pleasure between her legs. She lets her left hand wander from Sherlock's neck down to circle her shoulder, then slides just her fingertips lightly between Sherlock's pert breasts. John's heart pounds as she growls against Sherlock's lips, "A little cold to be wearing one layer, hmm?"

Sherlock inhales sharply and moans as John's fingertips begins to gently circle her right nipple. "I am... wearing a coat..." she stutters.

"Hmm," John hums with a grin, planting a single kiss to Sherlock's jaw. "You really shouldn't be..." She sits up and pulls Sherlock with her, pushing the sleeves of the Belstaff off and smoothing her hands back up Sherlock's arms to her shoulders. As Sherlock lowers her torso back to the seat, John slides her hands down to the low neckline of the cocktail dress and tugs, the silky fabric sliding low to reveal two perfect breasts, nipples already firm. Sherlock's breath quickens at the sensation, pushing John's resolve over the edge to completely abandon her plan for a gradual, steady build.

Resting her left hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, John dips her head down to with lips covering teeth to bite gently around her right nipple, followed by the generous of salve her tongue. Hearing Sherlock's moan, John's clit twitches and she moves both hands to knead each of Sherlock's breast while continuing to work with her mouth, but the displacement of weight finally pushes her right knee over the slippery edge of the leather seat, sending her tumbling to the floor with a yelp.

Sherlock's confused, flushed face peers over the edge of the seat to look down at a laughing John, who pushes herself up to a crouching position and says with a grin, "Let's put that big brain of yours to use: how do we do this without falling off?"

Sherlock squeezes her eyes shut to fight of the haze of arousal and think clearly. After a moment, she reaches for John's wrist and rumbles, "Come here." Pressing the back of her body against the back of the seat, she pulls John up to lay on the bench so they are face to face. Sherlock loops her left arm under John's neck and bends it to hold her between the shoulder blades with long fingers. "I'll keep you from falling," she whispers with a smile and a kiss. "Now, where were we?"

John grins and uses her right arm, which is awkwardly smushed and bent at the elbow between their torsos, to play gently with Sherlock's right breast again. Her left hand slowly snakes around Sherlock's lean frame, taking in the dips and curves and the swell of her arse under the silky dress. She slides her hand slowly under the skirt and kneads the muscles through Sherlock's sheer stockings. Simultaneously, Sherlock's fingers fumble at the button and zip of John's slacks.

Their kisses grow desperate and sloppy. Any reservations they may have had about having sex in a car Mycroft sent for this exact purpose have been abandoned. John's right hand is still massaging Sherlock's breast while her left continues to roam along Sherlock's arse and thighs, inching between her legs and moving upward as if drawn by the heat at their meeting point. John's slacks finally loosened, Sherlock slides her right hand without hesitation under John's lacy panties, cupping her mound firmly and beginning a slow, undulating movement with her fingertips over John's already slick clit. John's head is thrown back by the sudden pleasure of it, the rough, indelicate movements already pushing her too close to the edge of orgasm.

She drops her forehead against Sherlock's and whispers in a laboured rasp, "Hang on, hang on... I need..." her own fingers reach between Sherlock's legs, causing a gasp and hiss. "I'm... I'm gonna rip these, babe."

Pinching a small section of the sheer stockings between two fingers, John digs one in and pulls, creating an large gash of milky white skin in the black fabric. The muted sound of the tear makes Sherlock moan with teeth clenched, her ministrations between John's legs forgotten momentarily. When John reaches through the tear and pushes the fabric of Sherlock's thong to the side, their lips crash together again, teeth clacking, and both women's hands begin to move again.

John's preference has always been clitoral stimulation, but Sherlock is partial to penetration. With no toys on hand in the small car cabin (though John wouldn't put it past Mycroft to have hidden a goody bag in a backseat pouch, at this rate), John slowly slides her middle and index fingers away from Sherlock's clit and eases them into her, moaning against Sherlock's mouth at the feeling of such concentrated, wet heat. She keeps her palm cupped against Sherlock's pelvic bone so that every movement maintains light pressure on her clit and begins to flex and relax her wrist, rocking in and out of Sherlock with a gradually increasing pace.

After only a few minutes of this, both of their hands are moving furiously, hips bucking, mouths open against each other, alternating between gasps and moans and muffled whimpers of "yes..." and "oh my  _god_..." and "please..." until John's right hand abandons Sherlock's breast to wrap around the back of her neck and pulI their lips together with crushing force as they both rut against each other's hands and crash over the edge of orgasm.

... and the seat. John feels the wind rush out of her as her back collides with something solid, a feeling immediately followed by the pressure of a bony detective smashing against her front. Their eyes open at the same time to see the other's sated and confused face, hands still between each other's legs.

Sherlock realizes first and barks out a loud, lazy laugh, dropping her forehead against John's shoulder. "Are you alright?" she giggles giddily, "I think... I think we've stopped." She removes her hand from John's pants as John stifles a groan and pushes herself up gingerly. "Yes ... Baker Street."

"Bit of a rude way to let us know we're here, slamming on the brakes like that," grumbles John, still dazed from her climax and hardly able to hold herself up on her wobbly arms. Sherlock's mobile rings again and the two women lock eyes with looks of exasperation. "Does she want a play-by-play report now...?" mutters John as Sherlock fumbles for the phone in her discarded coat's pockets.

"What?" she snaps, listening for a few seconds before mumbling a hateful “Merry Christmas to you, too,” and hanging up.

She turns to John with an unreadable expression. "221 is unlocked for us. Don't you dare button up again, just grab my shoes, help me find my other glove, and get inside with the expectation of being tackled on the stairs."

John smiles in bewilderment and grabs Sherlock's face to pull her in for a quick, hard kiss. "Your sister is the strangest person in the world and this is seriously off-putting, but get your arse all the way inside our flat and you can have me anywhere. Poor Mrs. Hudson does not need to be scandalized on Christmas night."

Sherlock is already tripping out of the car and running barefoot to the door, arms full of Belstaff and a precariously perched violin case, grinning back at John and slipping into the warm with record speed, the tears in her stockings barely visible under her rippling skirt. John sighs with a smile and gathers the debris scattered around the cabin before hurrying inside herself, wondering how her life became simultaneously perfect and absolutely bonkers. 


End file.
